


Inflammable

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Combustion [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual!Sherlock, Asexuality, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Humor, M/M, Sexual Content, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:58:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock explains. John is still confused. Maybe things aren't that different after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inflammable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daunt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daunt/gifts).



> Written for my wonderful [Daunt](http://dauntdraws.livejournal.com). Britpicking and beta thanks to [oxoniensis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/oxoniensis) (brilliant as always, hon, thank you!)

Sherlock solves the case. John composes an entry for his blog.

 _The Combusted Windmill_. 

One too many Don Quixote references find their way into the reader comments, but John has long since given up on responding to those anyway. He can never keep up with the sheer volume of correspondence, and he has better things to occupy his attention.

Things like Sherlock. Things like that bloody fantastic handjob in the middle of a smouldering field, and the fact that three days later Sherlock still hasn't mentioned it. 

Sherlock hasn't mentioned it, but John can't stop thinking about it

His attraction to Sherlock was always conveniently fleeting before. A moment's distraction, an idle fantasy. Easy enough to brush aside once Sherlock finished doing or saying whatever devastatingly attractive thing had set John off in the first place. John never needed to excuse himself from the room, or take himself in hand hours later to work out the lingering frustration that way. He'd never jerked off thinking about his smug, beautiful, utterly mad best friend.

He's more than making up for it now. Three nights running, and he hasn't managed to sleep without first closing his eyes, picturing Sherlock (Sherlock's face, his mouth, his other attributes) and bringing himself off as quietly as he can. 

Makes it difficult to look Sherlock in the eye the next day. It's not just paranoia that's got John worried his friend will simply look at him and _know_. It's perfectly rational concern. More than rational, in fact. The chances of Sherlock failing to notice… John doesn't know how to express numbers that small.

On morning number four, Sherlock isn't in the flat when John comes downstairs. He isn't there two hours later, when John is showered and dressed and caffeinated, starting to get antsy about the quiet.

The empty sitting room is hardly unusual, of course. And it's not as though Sherlock often remembers to check in before vanishing to parts unknown. But John is anxious just the same, and he's cleaned half the flat by the time he hears the front door open and clatter shut downstairs.

He'd have cleaned more if he dared disturb any of Sherlock's experiments, but John hasn't survived this long by being quite that stupid. He doesn't want to know, and he definitely doesn't want to interfere. If any of those setups are going to explode, John would prefer not to be the last one who prodded at them.

Footsteps coming up the stairs now, noisy but unhurried, and then Sherlock steps through the open doorframe and into the living room. He's not wearing his coat. The entire right side of his shirt is covered in something viscous and blue. When he turns his head, John sees his hair has been splattered with the same substance.

"Interesting morning?" John asks. He's momentarily distracted from the awkwardness that's been dominating his thoughts.

"Not particularly," Sherlock says, then turns and walks right past him. John catches the scent of ozone as Sherlock disappears down the hall, towards the shower he clearly needs.

"Right. Well, then." John shrugs at the empty room, like the furniture might somehow commiserate, and goes to put the kettle on.

\- — - — - — - — -

There's nothing interesting in the papers today, but John is reading them anyway. It gives him something to do with his hands, flipping the pages, shuffling them as though trying to bring some order to the coffee table in front of the couch.

Sherlock's not wearing anything viscous or blue when he returns to the room. He's changed into clean clothes. A dark shirt buttoned most of the way up and then abandoned as though forgotten. The collar gapes at the last few buttons, distracting enough that Sherlock will surely catch John staring. Sherlock's hair has been towel-dried to a state of near chaos, which doesn't leave it looking much different from usual.

John starts when Sherlock's eyes connect with his. He coughs and looks back down at the paper in his hands. 

There are at least six experiments ongoing in the kitchen. John knows this, because he counted when he was carefully cleaning around them. Six experiments to occupy Sherlock's attention, which means any second he'll turn his back and leave John in peace. Any second. Seriously. And the fact that he's still standing there just means…

John's not sure what it means, actually. He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him as the seconds tick over, one into the next, and a quiet buzz of anxiety slicks beneath his skin.

When Sherlock finally moves, it's not to retreat into the kitchen like he's supposed to. It's to step over the coffee table— _over_ it, because heaven forbid the great Sherlock Holmes do anything so crude as walk _around_ a piece of furniture—and settle on the sofa to John's left. He's too close. His arm brushes against John's, which is hardly avoidable. John is taking up the very middle of the sofa. There's not much room to his left or right. Besides, Sherlock's guileless disregard for John's personal space is nothing new.

It doesn't feel quite so guileless as it should, though. Not this time. If John didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock was doing it deliberately.

"John." Sherlock's voice is a low rumble on his name, and the sound makes John's pulse quicken. "Are you finished with that section?"

"No," John says. He doesn't even know what section of the paper he's reading. He doesn’t know _which paper_ he's reading. He just knows he can't turn his head and look at Sherlock now. That way lies madness or humiliation, possibly both. He keeps his eyes on the page in front of him.

"You haven't read a single word in the past three minutes," Sherlock points out. Is that smugness in his tone? John can't spare the brainpower to decide. He can't figure out how to respond, either. The words feel like an accusation, and John feels the tips of his ears starting to burn pink.

The paper rustles as Sherlock takes it from John's hands, then folds and sets it efficiently aside.

"Something is troubling you," Sherlock observes. 

"No," John responds too quickly.

"John," Sherlock says, and Christ, the sound of his name again. How is John supposed to keep his mouth shut when Sherlock is sitting so close and _saying his name_ like that, like a purr in his ear. John clenches his jaw to keep from responding, because he's half afraid if he opens his mouth now he'll beg Sherlock to touch him.

"John, look at me." There's an edge of command in Sherlock's voice, and maybe John's been a soldier too long because he obeys without hesitation. 

He has a split second to realize Sherlock is hovering even closer than he thought, and then everything goes blurry because Sherlock is kissing him.

Sherlock. Is kissing him.

Sherlock is _kissing_ him, and John's eyes fall closed. He breathes a startled sound against Sherlock's lips. Sherlock is smiling, John can feel it. Sherlock's mouth moves against his in a way that feels almost experimental, though there's nothing tentative about it. John is reasonably sure Sherlock's never been tentative about anything in his life. But he seems to be in no hurry, even as he nudges John back, urging him down against the cushions so that Sherlock can slide over him and blanket John with the distracting heat of his body.

John has fantasized about Sherlock in a lot of ways over the past three days, but his imaginings were nothing compared to this. Sherlock's hands feel like they're cataloguing him, purposeful and warm over his arms, his chest, his throat. And Sherlock's _mouth_ —

Sherlock's mouth is amazing. John licks at the seam of Sherlock's lips, and gasps a relieved, greedy sound when Sherlock opens for him and lets John have a taste. 

John's fingers have found their way into Sherlock's hair, and the strands are still damp. Cool contact, a stark contrast to the heat of everywhere else they're touching. Sherlock has slipped his lean body between John's legs, and even if John _wanted_ to be a gentleman he'd be having a tough time of it now. He's getting hard, Christ, of course he is, he's getting hard and Sherlock…

Sherlock isn't.

John twists away from the kiss, groaning a curse and trying to think past the overwhelming chorus of _god-yes-want_ thrilling along his nerves. 

"No," he says, and Sherlock goes still above him. "No, hang on, just. Just wait. Wait a second. I have to think."

"Why are you agitated?" Sherlock asks. He's backed off a little. They're not pressing against each other everywhere now. But he's still an entitled presence in John's personal space, still hovering above him as Sherlock continues, "I may be lacking in practical experience, but I'm quite confident there was nothing wrong with my technique."

"Oh, no," John concedes. "No, your technique is… it's fine. It's more than fine. It's… Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock." He's moving now. He can't stay here beneath Sherlock's body and hands, not if he's going to solve this particular puzzle. He manoeuvres awkwardly out from under Sherlock's weight, half falling from the couch, and lands in the narrow space between sofa and coffee table.

He's on his feet quickly, then pacing an instant later. There are too many thoughts vying for space in his head, and he'd really rather climb back on the sofa with Sherlock than try to sort them out.

Sherlock sits up slowly, and far more gracefully than he has any right to when John is already so turned around.

"You have questions," Sherlock observes, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.

"Good," John mutters. "Yes. Sound deduction." He pauses. Breathes deliberately in, then out. "For God's sake, Sherlock, where is this coming from all of a sudden? You're not even— You don't—"

"I don't see why that's relevant." 

John stops pacing and stares at him. 

Sherlock, apparently unbothered by the sudden scrutiny, continues, "Can we move on to the intelligent questions now?"

John keeps staring. He's too confused to do anything else.

Sherlock waits him out for a count of thirty seconds, then lowers his hands and shrugs. He looks for all the world like he's prepared to have this bizarre conversation for both of them, and when he finally opens his mouth his words don't disappoint. They also don't make any damn sense.

"We can discuss terms whenever you feel up to the task. If you want to acknowledge anything so pedestrian as an anniversary, I leave it up to you to select a suitable date."

"Anniversary?" John is gaping now, not just staring. His eyebrows have shot up so high he's surprised they're still attached to his head.

"I'm given to understand such rituals are of some importance when people become romantically attached."

" _Romantically atta_ — Sherlock, you jerked me off _once_ , and you haven't said a word about it since!" This is what insanity feels like. 

"You're missing the point, John. Or are you being deliberately obtuse?"

John holds his hands out at his sides in a gesture of abject helplessness. 

Sherlock sighs, as though John is being unforgivably slow. 

"Providing you an orgasm was hardly the defining moment. On the contrary, I decided some weeks ago that it was time to change the parameters of our relationship."

John drops his hands and narrows his eyes. 

"You decided," he says.

"Yes."

"Sherlock, you can't just unilaterally decide we're a _couple_!" The world does enough of that for them, thanks. He doesn't need Sherlock jumping on the bandwagon when he's not looking.

"The decision was hardly unilateral."

"Is that so? Funny thing, I don't remember being consulted." John is not amused. Which leaves no explanation for the burbling edge of hysteria threatening in his chest. 

"Since we became flatmates, you've dated a total of nine women. Of those nine, only three could conceivably be described as a monogamous relationship. And of those three relationships, only two endured longer than two months."

"I really hope you have a point here."

"Suppose you had to isolate a single variable. A single factor linking each of those nine failures. What would that variable be?"

John cringes a little at Sherlock's word choice. 'Failure'. Things may not have worked out with any of John's lady friends, but that's hardly his fault, is it? All right, maybe it is a little. But it's even more someone else's fault, and John crosses his arms and glares.

"The fact that you're a cockblocking sod?" he guesses.

"I'm being serious, John."

So is John, really, but he sighs and shakes his head. There's an earnestness in the way Sherlock is watching him. John knows the answer (the _right_ answer), and it isn't all that far from the one he gave. That doesn't mean he's in a hurry to admit it out loud.

But Sherlock is still watching him expectantly, like John's answer is a foregone conclusion. John tries to look away and fails. It takes him almost fifteen seconds to cave to the inevitable and admit what they both already know.

"You."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches upwards in satisfaction, and John honestly can't decide whether he wants to kiss him or punch him in the face.

Sherlock moves before John resolves the conundrum, rising from his seat so smoothly John could have missed it with an ill-timed blink. He doesn't stop once he's on his feet. He steps right over the coffee table and crowds into John's space, and his expression is unreadable. John backs away instinctively, confusion guiding his retreat. Sherlock follows until the abrupt bump of the kitchen doorframe stops John in his tracks. 

It shouldn't feel like a surprise, but John still finds himself startled by their pronounced difference in height at this intimate angle. He has to tilt his neck so far that the back of his head thumps against the wood behind him. He'd be off-balance enough even without Sherlock's crowding heat penning him in. 

Sherlock has pressed himself close, and when did John's hands decide hanging on to Sherlock was an acceptable tactic?

The only thing stranger than _seeing_ Sherlock at this angle is _kissing_ Sherlock at this angle, and a startled sound escapes John's throat when Sherlock's mouth covers his as though they were never interrupted.

There's nothing experimental in this kiss, though. Sherlock is a dangerously fast learner, and he explores John's mouth with a surety that leaves John's head spinning. Sherlock's fingers are warm along his jaw, his throat, and it takes John a moment to realize Sherlock is undoing the top buttons of his shirt.

Which should maybe be startling, but is mostly just doing pleasant things to John's insides. He groans when Sherlock's fingers slip beneath the fabric, along his collarbone. He breathes a muted curse when Sherlock stops kissing him and ducks his head to taste the skin of John's throat.

"Sherlock, stop!" John gasps. The words come out rough, because he doesn't want to say them in the first place.

Sherlock hums a disapproving sound, but he draws back. He doesn't let go of John. He doesn't move aside or give him any appreciable space. But he backs off enough that John can look him in the eye, and suddenly John can breathe again. He hadn't even realized he needed to do that. 

Sherlock is staring down at his face like John is the most fascinating specimen he's ever seen.

"Something is still vexing you," Sherlock notes. "What is it?"

The words stick in John's throat, an awkward and inevitable pause. But John needs to say this. _This_ , at least, he needs to understand.

"Sherlock, I'm not gay. _You're_ not gay. Hell, I'm not even sure you have a libido!"

"Irrelevant."

"No." John shakes his head stubbornly. "No, it is _not_ irrelevant. You claim we've been in a romantic relationship for weeks without my even knowing about it. Assuming I believe you, I think I'm entitled to know whether you're actually attracted to me."

"Of course I'm attracted to you," Sherlock says in his most exasperated voice.

" _Sexually_ , Sherlock." John can't believe he's having to say this out loud. If his face weren't already flushed from Sherlock's heat and proximity—from his fucking _mouth_ —John would sure as hell be blushing now.

But Sherlock doesn't offer another unconsidered retort. Instead he looks at John like they're speaking incompatible languages.

"Why does that matter?" Sherlock asks. He sounds genuinely perplexed.

"You're joking." John's head thumps back against solid wood. He closes his eyes for barely two seconds before opening them again and meeting Sherlock's scrutiny. Sherlock obviously _isn't_ joking. He's too busy peering at John as though John just tried to argue that the laws of physics are really just casual suggestions.

"Of course you're not joking," John mutters. "Jesus, Sherlock, it's not… Why seduce me if you're not sexually attracted to me?"

"I assume you won't accept 'scientific enquiry' as a reasonable rationale."

He almost would. This is Sherlock Holmes, after all. There's very little he wouldn't do in the pursuit of useful science. But John refuses to accept that reasoning. He won't be some passing experiment, and he knows Sherlock well enough by now to recognize that there's more going on here than simple curiosity.

"You're not interested in sex."

"But I am interested in you."

John's head hurts when he tries to work his way through that one. Never mind the searing focus of Sherlock's undivided attention, which is already seriously interfering with John's sense of calm. 

"We're friends, Sherlock. We're _just_ friends." It hurts somewhere he's not ready to think about yet, saying those words.

"You know that's not true." Sherlock says it with such simple confidence, and relief jolts brighter than it should through John's chest.

He still doesn't understand. Sherlock has given him the pieces to this puzzle, but John can't decipher them.

"How can we be more than friends if…?" He doesn't mean to taper off, but the words die on his tongue, and John swallows uncomfortably.

"If what?" 

_Now_ he's feeling the embarrassment, on a long delay maybe, but here it is. John hesitates, and he doesn't want to say it. There's no reason to feel this vulnerable so late in the game, but it still takes him a long moment to brace himself and speak the words.

"…if I don't turn you on," he finishes quietly, his cheeks burning.

The exasperation on Sherlock's face sharpens, turning impatient, as if John is still completely missing the point.

"You _are_ being deliberately obtuse. John, please try to keep up. The analysis is not that complicated."

John's breath escapes him in a rough sound that could almost be a laugh, tight and disbelieving. He drops his eyes, training his gaze off to the side for several seconds rather than meeting Sherlock's unfiltered intensity head-on.

Then Sherlock makes a soft, inarticulate sound. He shakes his head, and John catches the movement in his peripheral vision. When John raises his eyes, he finds a disconcertingly sympathetic expression smoothing Sherlock's features.

"If you're uncomfortable because you require time to reassess your own sexual inclinations, you need only say so. I'll wait as long as you require. But if your discomfort is based only on my perceived lack of libido, then you're stalling needlessly. I _do_ want this. What difference does it make whether or not you ' _turn me on_ ', as you so quaintly put it?" 

A lot of difference, John wants to insist. Because it should matter. Of course it should matter.

But the more he thinks it through, the more John realizes it really doesn't. This is Sherlock. He never does anything without meticulous forethought. If he says he wants this, shouldn't John take him at his word?

Maybe it's not the particulars that matter. Maybe it's enough that, whatever their disparate reasons, they seem to want the same things.

Mostly the same things, at least. John's brain _is_ catching up now, however belatedly. The dots are connecting in incomprehensible patterns, but there might finally be an image forming.

"You don't want to fuck me," John guesses. 

"Not particularly." 

That concession should be like a glass of cold water to the face, but it doesn’t bother John the way he expects. Maybe he's coming around to Sherlock's reasoning. Maybe he wasn't that keen on having another bloke inside him anyway.

"And you don't want _me_ to fuck _you_ ," he continues on to the next logical conclusion.

"I'm not averse to the idea," Sherlock says, surprising him to silence. "Though I wouldn't want you to have any unrealistic expectations regarding the experience."

John blinks at him, and it takes him several seconds to work through that statement. 

He's honestly not sure he _wants_ to fuck Sherlock. There's realizing you're interested in your male best friend, and then there's throwing yourself into the deep end of the pool. John's pretty content swimming in the shallows for the moment.

But Sherlock has just made it plain that he _could_. And the fact makes John happier than he thinks it probably ought to.

"Unbelievable," he mutters. There's awe packed into that one word, but also exasperation and disbelief.

"Thank you." Sherlock now looks entirely too pleased with himself.

"I don't think I meant that as a compliment."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course you meant it as a compliment."

John pauses to consider, and comes to the conclusion that yes, he definitely meant it that way. 

"What now, then?" he asks. He has no idea what comes next. There's no logical follow-up to a conversation this surreal. 

Sherlock smirks at him, because of course he's already a dozen steps ahead of John and knows _exactly_ what comes next. John's prepared to gripe, because Sherlock is never quite so infuriating as when he's smug.

But the second John opens his mouth, before he's managed to utter so much as a syllable, Sherlock drops to his knees and steals the words right off John's tongue. He's still smirking, but he's also opening John's fly with quick fingers. John is only human. He's not going to tell Sherlock to wipe the smirk off his face when in a matter of seconds that smirk is going to close around the hard-on he's just abruptly remembered. 

And then Sherlock's mouth is— Oh Christ, it's perfect. Sherlock has never done this before. John can tell, the same way he could tell from the kiss. It feels like a meticulous experiment at first. Like Sherlock is developing hypotheses in his head (hypotheses about John's dick, Jesus, he's not going to last long at this rate) and testing them with his tongue, his lips, his fingers. Cataloguing the results and turning them right back around until John doesn’t know which way is up and doesn't bloody care.

Sherlock gags when John's hips stutter forward without warning, but he ignores John's apologies. He barely pauses to breathe before diving right back in, taking John that deep and deeper, as though even this is a challenge he refuses to surrender. The sight of him like this, when John manages to hold his eyes open and _see_ —the sight of him on the floor at John's feet, his hair a wreck from John's fingers, his eyes never straying from John's face—it's all too much.

John barely manages to choke out a warning, but in the end it doesn't matter. Sherlock doesn't retreat when John comes. He doesn't miss a drop.

John bruises his knees when he drops to the floor after, despite Sherlock's efforts to guide and ease his fall. Sherlock's eyes are bright, and John can't tell if it's with laughter or fascination. His own brain is too fried to tell the difference. He clings to Sherlock's shirt, tucks his face against Sherlock's throat, and struggles to catch his breath.

"You didn't have to swallow," he murmurs, suddenly sleepy, never mind that it's barely noon.

Sherlock laughs, then. Out loud. Mirthful and deep. 

"It seemed the expedient choice."

\- — - — - — - — -

John must have fallen asleep. Orgasms do that to him sometimes. Most of the time, really.

He wakes in Sherlock's bed. He's too warm, and spends a moment wondering if there's a dignified way to squirm out of his clothes. John's not exactly sure why he still cares about dignity, now of all times, but he wonders just the same.

It takes him the span of those thoughts to realize Sherlock is in bed beside him. Not just beside him. He's sitting up against the headboard, and John apparently decided he was far more comfortable than any of the pillows, because he's wrapped half around Sherlock, head resting on his stomach.

There's the unmistakable clatter of fingers on a keyboard, and when John raises his eyes he sees Sherlock has his computer (his own computer for once, and not John's) resting on his knees. He's only typing with one hand, but that doesn't seem to be slowing him down.

John wonders where Sherlock's other hand is until he realizes it's curled around the back of John's head. He can feel Sherlock's fingers carding lazily through his hair.

This is weird. This is bizarre to a degree John can't even process. This is… really quite nice, actually, and John decides not to overanalyze when he's this sleepy and content.

"I know you're awake," Sherlock says. He's still typing, and the fingers in John's hair don't pause in their idle movements. "I need coffee."

"Get it yourself," John mutters. Sherlock won't, of course. He has to be desperate for the caffeine boost before he'll make his own coffee. And for all the frenetic energy of his one-handed typing, Sherlock is calmer than John has ever seen him.

The clicking of keys finally tapers off, and Sherlock closes his laptop with a snap, leaning just far enough to set it on his bedside table. 

John's still not worried he'll do anything as unforgivable as standing up and leaving this bed. In fact, he's so confident in his assessment that he unwinds from Sherlock and flops bonelessly onto his back. 

"Do I ever get to return the favour?" John asks as Sherlock settles back into place.

"If you like. Though you must promise me something first."

John blinks up at him

"You _cannot_ be offended if I find the process tedious. I assure you, it won't be a judgment on your relative skill."

And John doesn't mean to pry, but he hears his own voice asking, "Don't you ever jerk off? You seemed familiar enough with the concept when you had your hand down my trousers."

"Boring," Sherlock mutters dismissively. "Much more interesting to do it to you. Did you know, your face conveys the most fascinating spectrum of reactions when you—"

"Yes, all right," John breaks in. "That is _quite_ enough of that."

"I intend to document them thoroughly," Sherlock continues, unfazed by John's interruption. There's a note of deliberate teasing in his voice, and a self-satisfied quirk to his lips.

John groans and hides his face in his hands, but the gesture is mostly for show.

Everything is backwards and upside down, and John wouldn't change a thing.


End file.
